The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page B

roof. As if the mere touch of my gaze had alerted him, he turned round sharply and looked at me. I still felt a bit dazed and my vision was blurred, but I thought the figure seemed to be getting closer. He was approaching too fast, as if his feet weren’t touching the ground when he walked, and he moved in sudden agile bursts, too quick for the eye to catch. I could barely see his face against the light, but I was able to tell that he was a gentleman with black, shining eyes that seemed too big for his face. The closer he got to me the more his shape seemed to lengthen and the taller he seemed to grow. I felt a shiver as he advanced and took a few steps back without realising that I was moving towards the water’s edge. I felt my feet treading air and began to fall backwards into the pond when the stranger suddenly caught me by the arm. He pulled me up gently and led me back to solid ground. I sat on one of the benches that surrounded the water basin and took a deep breath, then looked up and saw him clearly for the first time. His eyes were a normal size, his height similar to mine, and his walk and gestures were like those of any other gentleman. He had a kind and reassuring expression.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes. Just a bit dizzy.’
    The stranger sat down next to me. He wore a dark, exquisitely tailored three-piece suit with a small silver brooch on his lapel, an angel with outspread wings that looked oddly familiar. It occurred to me that the presence of an impeccably dressed gentleman here on the roof terrace was rather unusual. As if he could read my thoughts, the stranger smiled at me.
    ‘I hope I didn’t alarm you,’ he ventured. ‘I suppose you weren’t expecting to meet anyone up here.’
    I looked at him in confusion and saw my face reflected in his black pupils as they dilated like an ink stain on paper.
    ‘May I ask what brings you here?’
    ‘The same thing as you: great expectations.’
    ‘Andreas Corelli,’ I mumbled.
    His face lit up.
    ‘What a great pleasure it is to meet you in person at last, my friend.’
    He spoke with a light accent which I was unable to identify. My instinct told me to get up and leave as fast as possible, before the stranger could utter another word, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that transmitted calm and trust. I decided not to ask myself how he could have known he would find me there, when even I had not known where I was. He held out his hand and I shook it. His smile seemed to promise redemption.
    ‘I suppose I should thank you for all the kindness you have shown me over the years, Señor Corelli. I’m afraid I’m indebted to you.’
    ‘Not at all. I’m the one who is indebted to you, my friend, and I should excuse myself for approaching you in this way, at so inconvenient a place and time, but I confess that I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while and have never found the opportunity.’
    ‘Go ahead then. What can I do for you?’ I asked.
    ‘I want you to work for me.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I want you to write for me.’
    ‘Of course. I’d forgotten you’re a publisher.’
    The stranger laughed. He had a sweet laugh, the laugh of a child who has never misbehaved.
    ‘The best of them all. The publisher you have been waiting for all your life. The publisher who will make you immortal.’
    The stranger offered me one of his business cards, which was identical to the one I still had, the one I was holding when I awoke from my dream of Chloé.
ANDREAS CORELLI
Éditeur
Éditions de la Lumière
Boulevard St.-Germain, 69, Paris
    ‘I’m flattered, Señor Corelli, but I’m afraid it’s not possible for me to accept your invitation. I have a contract with . . .’
    ‘Barrido & Escobillas, I know. Riff-raff with whom, without wishing to offend you, you should have no dealings whatsoever.’
    ‘It’s an opinion shared by others.’
    ‘Señorita Sagnier, perhaps?’
    ‘You know